Beautiful Graves(22)

We talk about his childhood a little more. How it was overshadowed by the constant reminder of his mortality. How his brother was discarded at their grandparents’ house, sometimes for weeks at a time. How Dom is still guilt ridden about what he put his family through. Then Dom takes a deep breath and says, “And what brought you to 7-Eleven at two in the morning, young lady? I’m assuming your night has been as shitty as mine.”

“Not anymore.” I let out a soft chuckle.

He poured his heart out to me. Now I owe him at least a fraction of my truth.

“Family stuff.” I wave my hand. “My dad wanted me to come home to San Francisco for Thanksgiving. I dodged it.”

“Why?”

Deciding I don’t want to tell Dom too much, I explain: “I can’t look at my family again after I broke it into a million pieces.”

“So I’m not the only one with a guilt trip. Interesting. How did you break your family into a million pieces?” he asks patiently. I get the feeling that he truly wants to know. That I’m the center of his attention.

It feels new . . . and not unwelcome.

I wiggle my toes in my boots, frowning at them. “I . . . my mom died.”

Silence engulfs us from all angles. Finally, Dom says, “I’m so sorry, Lynne. How is it your fault, though?”

“It is. Trust me. It’s a long story, but it is.” I’m not exaggerating. It’s not me being melodramatic. I really did cause it. And I know Dad and Renn think so too. It’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.

“Let me get this straight.” He rubs at his jaw. “You think you caused your mom’s death, yet you’re not in prison, so I’m going to go ahead and assume it was an accident. Your solution is to deny the rest of your family a daughter and a sister too?”

I know he has a point, but it’s not that simple. I can’t look at Dad’s and Renn’s faces without feeling like the Grim Reaper, who slunk through the crack of their door and stole their joy. Plus, it’s not like they’re so hot on getting back in touch with me either. Renn is cordial at most with me. Mostly, he ignores my existence. Dad treats me like a long-distance cousin he feels obliged to text every now and then.

Shaking my head, I push away from the hood and round the car back to the driver’s seat. Dom takes my cue and does the same. The drive back to the 7-Eleven, where he left his car, is silent but not uncomfortable. It feels like we’re both processing what was said tonight.

I park behind his red convertible Mazda MX-5 Miata. It’s such a Dom car I want to laugh. He likes big shiny things in bold colors. A part of him must always be that five-year-old kid who almost died.

The sun begins to rise, bruising the historical town in bluish-orange hues. Dom unfastens his seat belt and turns to me. “Thanks for the company. And the burger.”

“First doughnuts, now a burger. Perhaps my calling in life is to feed you.” I wink, trying to keep it light. “Hope you feel better today.”

“Even if I don’t, I have two fitness classes to attend, and my brother said he wants me to come over for a few beers and to watch the game. At the very least, I’ll have a distraction.”

I reach to squeeze his hand. I don’t want to let go, but I don’t want anything romantic with Dom either. I just want us to coexist in the same sphere. To be there for each other. I’ve missed having someone who listens. So I brave the rejection this time. I put myself out there, so to speak.

“Hey, Dom, do you want to maybe . . . exchange numbers? I would really like to be your friend.”

Dom smiles, squeezing my hand back. “Thank you for the offer, Lynne, but I can’t be your friend. I’d be constantly pining for you, and that would be a very miserable existence indeed.”

And then, before I can say anything more, before I can tell him Nora is going to kill me if I tell her we met again and I didn’t get his number, he reaches over, kisses my cheek softly, and leaves.





SIX


Two weeks pass.

I never tell Nora I ran into Dom at the gas station. I have a feeling this would just inspire another you-have-to-get-over-Joe conversation. As it turns out, Nora doesn’t need Dom as an excuse. One day, when we are perched on a picnic blanket at the park, a semicute guy glances my way. He is reading a book. A book I happen to like a lot. Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace.

“You should go over there and talk to him,” Nora urges, rolling from her back to her stomach, thirstily drinking in the measly rays of sunshine slipping through the fat clouds.

“That’s a hard no.” I bury my face in my own paperback—Stephen King’s newest.

“Why? Because of Joe?” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose.

“No,” I say, but the real answer is among other reasons. “Because I’m not that person who goes up to a guy and asks for his number.”

“Do you need to be a certain type of girl to do that?” Nora blinks. “It’s always a risk to ask someone out. Do you think your feelings are more precious than those of a girl who would ask this guy out?”

“I’m not saying that at all. Kudos to girls who have the guts to hit on men. I think they make the world a better place. But in the risk-management hierarchy, I scale pretty low. I’m not a risk-taker. I don’t . . . I don’t put myself out there.” I use Pippa’s words. It makes me miss her again. I wonder if one day I’ll stop missing her like she was a part of my body. I wish for that day, but I also dread it.